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  . . . Galaxy Commander Kev Rosse flopped off of his cot and hit the dirt floor and vomited. Bile splashed his hands with warm, sloshing liquid and he vomited again. And again. The stench filling his nostrils, while muscles racked under the horror of the nightmare and a headache exploded pinpricks of flashing light under tightly lashed eyelids. As the dry heaves began, he wished he were dead.

  A lifetime later, stomach so empty it felt shrunk in size and tongue swollen until he almost gagged, Kev Rosse gingerly rolled onto his side, then slowly, ever so slowly, over again. Then, centimeters at a time, he maneuvered into a crawling position, from which he managed to get to the edge of his tent and poke his head outside.

  The pressure on his forehead immediately began to ease under the ministration of Addicks’ local night breeze, the usual cold wind now a blessed balm to aching muscles and a tortured soul.

  By the Founder! In the darkness of the new moon, he could see almost nothing, beyond the fitful flame of a torch almost four hundred meters distant. It burned at the entrance to the cavern system where his force stowed most of its equipment—even held room for three ’Mechs. Nevertheless, the stench of his guts still encrusted his fingers in stickiness and the nightmare coated his knowledge of the most powerful vision he had ever experienced.

  I must speak with Davik. Clumsily wiping his hands through tufts of local shore grass, he levered to his knees and finally to his feet. Wiping bile from his mouth onto a sleeve, he wove as though drunk, trying to regain control of his body while zeroing in on Davik’s tent. The cold night air now seemed less of a relief, raising goose bumps on his flesh. The memory of his dream hitched his breathing and invaded reality. He glanced upwards, as though afraid to see a crimson rent stretching the sky, but only found blackness. The minuscule oases of lights that were the stars seemed to disappear against the sheer magnitude of such darkness. Imagined snuffling across his neck sent him running, though staggering was the best he could manage.

  “Davik!” he almost yelled as he collapsed through the tent opening, falling onto hard-packed dirt and scraping his left palm free of flesh.

  “Wha . . .” a confused, muffled voice answered. Scrabbling sounds and movement in the darkness almost ripped free a scream, before a small light pushed back the night with its steady, man-made solidity.

  “Kev . . . Galaxy Commander . . . what the . . . you . . .” The voice trailed off as the old man shuffled into the light to peer down at him with shadowed eyes. The man, at least into his sixties, with a flowing beard, and a face filled with the crags and clefts of flesh only a lifetime of experiences can gouge, gracefully bent to one knee despite the hour and abrupt awakening. He brought up the length of his own robes and began to wipe away vomit from Kev’s hands.

  He stared, unseeing and dull-eyed, ignoring the sting of stomach acid on the torn flesh of his palm, for almost a minute as Davik continued his ministrations as though he was the lowliest casteman. The everyday act pulled at Kev’s anxieties and fears until they bubbled to the surface, burst, and were carried away on the soft wind ruffling the tent flaps.

  Finally Galaxy Commander Kev Rosse stilled Davik’s hands with his own, and then settled into a more appropriate sitting position, legs crossed. Shock, pain, and now shame warred within him at the way he had arrived. Kev waited to be sure his voice would not betray him, then spoke. “Visionmaster, I request surkai.”

  “You’ve no need to ask for forgiveness,” Davik said, the smile plain in his voice, if hidden in the giant beard.

  “Your contractions?” Kev said, responding to Davik’s levity.

  “Don’t hurt anyone, least of all you. Kills me how we can throw ourselves into the way of autocannons shells and PPC streams and yet can be terrified of simple words.”

  “It is not that simple.”

  The man stood, pulled a small folding chair to him, and settled down, ignoring the stains on the edge of his robe from the vomit. Kev almost blanched as he saw it.

  Seeing his look, Davik glanced down, then waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit on a stool. You young people can cross your legs in the dirt all you want, but beyond the length of my beard, I should get something for living so long.”

  “What you should get, Visionmaster, is a little more respect for Clan ways.” They shared a smile.

  “Now, that vision?” he continued, the non sequitur catching Kev off balance and causing his fear to surge.

  “Um.”

  “Speak up. Unlike you young’uns, I need sleep.”

  The casualness of tone pushed darkness back into its corner and unstopped his tongue. In halting steps, Kev unlimbered the vision. Each word reawoke the visceral sensations of the nightmare and the sure knowledge of impending doom. Finally, as his words died out, he realized he’d start vomiting again if he didn’t wash away the stomach acids still coating his tongue.

  As though reading his mind, Davik thrust a bottle into his hands and reseated himself. When did he stand? Kev shifted position and took several mouthfuls, which he leaned back and spit out the tent flap after sloshing. Finally, he reseated himself, relieving aching muscles, and took several long, slow swallows. Then a deep breath calmed his jangled nerves.

  “What did you see?” Visionmaster Davik said.

  He responded without looking up, his hands caressing the plastic water bottle, eyes elsewhere. “Our doom.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “One is never sure.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But it was there.”

  “Of course. What else?”

  “A monster. Something hunting for us.”

  “For us?”

  “No, not just us, me,” Kev said, closing eyes, gritting teeth. “Me.”

  “Who could it be?”

  Laughter barked into the tent, spilling into the night. “Anybody,” he finally responded, pictures moving against his closed eyelids as he named them. “The Republic. Bannson and his stravag Raiders. Campbell and her Highlanders, though she has been busy trying to put out every brush fire in The Republic. Sword-sworn. Fury?” He shrugged his shoulders, found an itch on his arm from drying vomit that Davik had missed. “We have a history that predates us, but if they come, they will come. An upstart? Anyone.”

  “What else?”

  He opened his eyes and unhinged his jaw, popping it twice as he ransacked his memory of the vision before responding. “No. Nothing else. My doom. The doom of the Spirit Cats. Something. Someone. Someone hunting us.”

  “And the companion?”

  Kev jerked as though struck by feedback from a neurohelmet during an ammo explosion. “The companion.”

  “Someone we trust. Someone you trust. Betrayer.”

  “Betrayer? But who?”

  “So someone comes and someone will betray.”

  Kev slowly lowered his head until his chin rested against his chest, the shirt smooth against his stubble-filled chin. “Not much.”

  “Of course not. It never is. But it is enough, quiaff?”

  At the man’s deliberate use of a Clanism, Kev raised his head and met the man’s eyes. They both smiled as Kev Rosse nodded. I have not come this far in leading my Spirit Cats in their quest for safety to be undone now. I have a warning and what comes, will come and I will be ready.

  “Aff.”

  7

  Santin, Comitatus-class JumpShip, Nadir Jump Point

  Rukbat, Prefecture II

  The Republic of the Sphere

  15 August 3136

  The first time in microgravity caused no end of problems. Yet their mutual comfort in the act led to the development of new tactics and numerous repeats. By week’s end, such difficulties were vanquished and they stood (or laid, in this case—in near zero-g, “lying” was absolutely relative) on the field of battle, victorious.

  And what victory. Droplets of sweat retaining their cohesion spun in slow, orbiting arcs, an accretion disk of hard work and spent pleasures. The air stank of musk
and dedication.

  He stretched like a cat finishing its feast—tendons and muscles popping luxuriously—and settling in to bask in the sunlight warming a patch of carpet. “Can you keep this up?” he finally said, words almost too large for the small berth.

  Laughter slipped into the room, slow and warm. “I believe, Kisho, the question should be can you keep it up, quiaff?”

  His laughter, though not totally devoid of edge, joined hers. “Aff, Hisa. Aff.” Reaching hands out towards the bulkhead, he grasped a ring and slowly reoriented, to find Hisa—as could be managed in such tight confines—in the process of taking a nearly moistureless sponge bath. “I see you enjoy your sandpaper baths.”

  “And I see you have been listening to lower castemen again.”

  He stiffened, tongue wrapping around a retort, then stalled. Not Hisa. Tanaka. Tivia. But not Hisa.

  “I do not offend,” she said, stowing away her personal gear. “I simply prefer to wash, or in this case scrape, away the past before moving to the future.” She barely flexed her legs and swam with effortless grace across the short distance.

  “You need to teach me that.”

  “What?” she said, reaching out her own arms, which outreached his by almost four centimeters, to stop forward movement a hand’s breadth from his chest.

  His eyes never once strayed to her body, despite the nudity. She would never be beautiful, or even pretty. Too much bone, not enough skin; he knew male Spheroids with larger breasts. But something in her eyes. Something in the openness of her face, in the way she smiled. And over the last few weeks, two things had become apparent as they coupled and talked, as crèche do (or are supposed to do—he had kept himself from such companionship for so long). That she allowed a vulnerability in looking past her shields, a vulnerability that dwarfed the mere physicality of her nudity. And more stunning, such vulnerability came not in weakness. No, in strength. A strength that towered above anything he had ever known.

  “Tanaka says that,” he finally responded.

  “What?”

  Gray eyes met gray and he kept silent until she finally spoke, hair floating around like lazy seaweed fronds in a slow ocean current. “That you spend too much time listening to the lower castemen?” she asked.

  “Aff.”

  She shrugged, began caressing his chest. “He pushes you. That is all.”

  “Pushes me. That is an understatement.”

  “He pushes everyone, including me. Including himself. Is that not our way?”

  I do not believe you. He pushes no one as he does me. But he conveniently ignored part of her comment. “Aff.”

  Her hands began further ministrations. “What do you think of the coming war?”

  “What?” Confusion painted his voice.

  “I thought my question plain. Do I need to stop?” she said, pulling her hands away.

  “Neg,” he said, anger replacing confusion, despite the twinkle in her eye. What did one have to do with the other?

  “Perhaps I should tell Tanaka I have found your Achilles’ heel. He has been at you for weeks and yet nothing. We mystics have to stick together.”

  It took every ounce of willpower not to react. Of course they would talk about him during their own coupling. Once more, gray eyes challenged.

  “No, I think not,” Hisa finally said without taking her steady gaze from his. “After all, what is the best victory but one achieved alone?”

  He sighed. So it was to be the game. Was she always the mystic? She was sending him mixed signals. Very well. If it is to be the game, with the endless riddles and conundrums, then you must lose. I have mastered it far longer than you might possibly imagine. Mastered it in a way you could not understand.

  “You surprised me with your change of subject,” he finally responded, content to play the game with a subject change of his own. “Tanaka. War. What next? Which warlord will replace Sakamoto? It might have already occurred.”

  She resumed with a sniff. “I do not care which warlord replaces Sakamoto. That is not the warlord that matters.”

  “And Warlord Tormark should?” His own hands began caressing her body in return. “Saito should have been the only warlord our Clan must deal with.”

  “Not this again.” Her sigh practically sang through the Spartan room, with its single fold-down cot and small desk, both bolted to the floor. She moved close, her hands expanding their movements.

  Kisho’s anger rose a notch. “Yes, this again. Why are we traveling to The Republic? Why are we going to a war that has nothing to do with us?”

  “You have been at this since we departed. Should it matter? War is war and we are Clansmen. We have not fought in such a war in far too long.” Her breath quickened as well.

  “I look forward as much as any warrior to the coming battles. But the battles. Not the war of politics. We mystics are supposed to think of such differences.”

  She shrugged, as though discounting that entire argument. “Because we swore oaths. The Dragon roars and we respond.” Once again, a change of subject.

  “But is it the right Dragon?” he shot back immediately, as they began to lock synch their ministrations.

  “Why should that matter?”

  “Because it should. What honor will this gain the Nova Cats? Do we follow blindly?”

  “I do not know, Kisho. Do we?”

  He almost blanched, grateful his body’s current occupation would mask nearly any reaction. So many times in the last few weeks, as he began to know her, as he began to understand her in a way they never had all during the crèche years and even afterwards, as they began to assume their responsibilities, he asked the question. Does she know? For so many long years following his Trial of Mysticism—that perfect moment, that one instant of savage understanding and clarity, when he realized he had passed the test, somehow, yet had no vision, that he had won through trickery of mind techniques and not the pure sight demanded of the mystic he would never be—he perfected a facade to cover his inadequacy. Turned it all into a challenge, part of the game.

  The Game. A game starting to unravel.

  “Yes. We do. We move blindly. Ordered by those who think they know a better path. By superiors who think they know better and yet do not.”

  “That is almost cowardice talk from a Clansman. Almost traitorous talk.” She increased the rhythm.

  Such words would have led to a Trial of Grievance on the spot from any other person. Yet he knew she pushed him, just like Tanaka. Yet, unlike Tanaka, her soft approach revealed far more than his savage frontal assaults ever would.

  “Is it cowardice to question? To demand to know if our leaders know the path they follow?” The words were spoken before he could call them back. These words were not a blatant declaration of his lack of faith, but as close as he had ever come to speaking his shame out loud to anyone within his Clan. Fear, a small, constant pulse since the Trial of Mysticism, gouged painfully across his soul, the notch at a height never before encountered. A screen, torn away by his own hand, fluttered slowly to the ground. Eyes wide, his breath sped well beyond what their coupling ever produced. What have I done?!

  Gentle arms drew him close, until their faces almost touched, eyes locked in a gaze far more intimate than their bodies, as she finished pulling them together and began the slow movements needed to keep from spiraling out of control in microgravity.

  The pain within diminished as Hisa did not immediately cast him away in disgust. For, though couched in talk of Katana and wars, her eyes said she knew of what they spoke. Her legs and arms wrapping his in bony flesh as she increased the rhythm.

  “You have not spoken of your nightmares.”

  Words cavorted within him, demanding an outlet. Demanding to answer that stab. Yet they were sealed as he gazed into the windows straight to her soul. Because if he opened his mouth, he knew there would be no lying to her about his dreams, and he’d lowered enough barriers this day.

  The rhythm began to reach a fevered pitch and endorphin
s spiked throughout his body, sending heat flashes and sparking pinpricks of bliss along his skin. A sad smile curved her lips as they reached towards the end. And he knew. Not sadness for his lack of faith or that he would not answer. No, as though the words etched themselves in fire across his sweat-slicked skin, her sadness sprung from his inability to simply share with her. To rest, even for a moment, from the mountain on his back and take her helping hand.

  He could find no words for any response, as their bodies answered a basic genetic need and they exploded together in rapture and all thoughts finally fell away.

  8

  Santin, Comitatus-class JumpShip, Nadir Jump Point

  Lambrecht, Prefecture I

  The Republic of the Sphere

  4 September 3136

  Yellow light, harsh and bright, spilt across the Santin as it materialized in the Lambrecht system, eddies from the emergence already sweeping away in every direction. The stabbing luminosity found portholes and viewports, mercilessly raking photons across unprotected eyes, illuminating darkened quarters Warning klaxons pealed down corridors, clarion calls to battle.

  “What?!” Kisho mumbled incoherently, roused from slumber, the klaxons hammer to a headache only partially vanquished. Opening eyes to slits, Kisho almost screamed as the sunlight pierced straight through, white-hot shivs skewering his eyes and penetrating straight to the brain. Kisho shivered, the image of a spitting and hissing cortex on a superheated armor plate looming large. Like a dogged sphynx raptor, the headache slipped quicksilver fibers back into gray matter, threatening to set off the mind-numbing pain once more. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away from the microsized viewport, hand automatically slapping full darkening of the aperture. For a moment the bed beckoned, as though it were the glory of a Bloodname all mystics were forever denied. A haggard breath pulled in the stink of sick flesh and the claustrophobic confines of the berth abruptly threatened to squeeze him until he popped like an infected wound.

  Gingerly he moved off the fold-down cot, careful to make sure his mag-slips adhered fully, then crabbed over the half step to the urinal device. The autocannon shells to his brain continued as the warning bells kept at their incessant bleating, eroding his will to live. Never had he experienced such pain. Not in his MechWarrior training, not in the sibko life before it and the Room and the Machine, not even the time a group of young trueborns caught him alone outside the crèche and let him know what they thought of mystics and the tainted blood he bore—five weeks in the infirmary, and nothing compared to the pain that made him wonder why he could not feel the blood coursing down his cheeks from burst eyes.